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Laurent stumbled out of the alleyway and tried to orient himself. It took a few minutes before he knew where he was and could start off in the right direction. He passed men and women hurrying along the streets. Most looked at him, then looked away. They knew what was happening in the prison of La Force, but they’d do nothing to stop it.
Oh, the good people of Paris.
Laurent continued on, stumbling through the narrow streets, keeping his head down, ignoring the drops of scarlet that fell from his temple. He almost ran into the man who stepped in front of him, blocking his path. Laurent fell back as the man hefted a cudgel. “And what do we have here?”
The man was a revolutionary from the tricolor cockade he wore to his striped trousers. It would have been easy enough to stay down, to close his eyes, and allow this peasant to do his worst. But now that his head was clear, he remembered he couldn’t die. He had made a promise, and he had to live to fulfill it.
Laurent climbed back to his feet. “Get out of my way.”
“A noble,” the man said with a grin. “I’ve just come from La Force, and I’ll wager you did too.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m on my way home.”
“You are on your way to the devil.Mort à l'aristocratie!” the man screamed. His face, already marred with blood and dirt from the sweat of his labors, turned red. He raised his cudgel with a malevolent grin, showing his broken teeth.
This was not the way Laurent had thought he would die. He’d imagined he’d die from a drunken tumble into the Seine or from a wild horseback ride or falling out of the gondola of aglobe aérostatiqueall his friends had been so keen to try. Death during a balloon flight would have been far more romantic than death from bludgeoning at the hands of a peasant with no care for dental hygiene.
Laurent simply couldn’t allow it. The peasant swung the cudgel, and Laurent caught the man’s wrist, stopping the weapon’s progress. The peasant’s eyes widened, and Laurent squeezed his wrist until he heard the bones crunch. With a cry, the man released the weapon, and it fell to the ground with a clink. But Laurent’s victory was short-lived. Windows opened and a woman screamed for the guard.
Laurent was no match for armed soldiers, and he began to run. He ran without looking where he was going, and by the time he realized he had outpaced the peasants, he was lost. He was thirsty and hot, yet shivering uncontrollably. He knew Paris as he knew the body of a lover, but when he looked about now, he had no idea where he was.
And then his eyes locked on the sign.
Rue du Jour.
Somehow, even in the chaos, his feet had known which path to take. Staggering with weariness, Laurent pushed himself toward the house at number six.
Two
The pounding on thedoor made her jump. Honoria had been lulled by the quiet in the house. With the League out on a mission, she’d worked in silence for the past few hours. The small house on the Rue du Jour was tucked away in the shadow of the north façade of Saint Eustache church. The little street was close enough to the Palais-Royal and the Place de la Révolution for the members of the League to stay apprised of all that was happening in Paris. And yet the Rue du Jour was for all intents and purposes nothing but an ancient walkway dating from the time of the walls of Philippe Auguste. It garnered little interest from any but those who had business there or those seeking to attend services at Saint Eustache. And since in these times of revolution praying to anyone but the Cult of the Supreme Being was not prudent, few ventured inside the medieval church.
Honoria resisted the urge to run and hide or to rush to open the door. Instead she gathered the false documents she had been drafting and placed them and the pen and ink she used inside the false panel in the wall. Then she closed the panel, made certain it was not visible, and scanned the dining table to ensure she had not forgotten anything. A teacup and saucer sat on the table, the cup half full because she’d forgotten about it as she began her work. Beside the cup was a tricolor cockade.
The pounding on the door sounded again and Honoria hastily pinned the cockade to her dress before going to answer it.
It couldn’t be soldiers. The soldiers usually came at night and made such a noise searching all the houses in the nearby streets and boulevards, the League knew well in advance when they would arrive. Still, Honoria’s heart pounded. The Committee of Public Safety’s law of suspects meant virtually anyone considered an enemy of the revolution or likely an enemy could be arrested. The nobles still in France had already been imprisoned as had former government officials, as well as anyone having an association with those nobles who fled the country for fear of their lives.
